Butler citizen. [volume] (Butler, Pa.) 1877-1922, 1887-06-17

his alteration; how life without her
would be dismal blank; how he had
watched her night after night, and
felt happy to know that he was close
to the woman whom he loved; how
eagerly he had looked forward to the
time when be could tell her all. She
listened demurely, with downcast
eyes, but uttered not word. That
she did not demonstrate with him
reconciled him to the belief that the
affection was mutual. At last she
spoke and her melodious voice thrill
ed him with delight.
She told him she dearly loved him,
loved him for his kindness to her;
that ever since she first saw him his
image was indissolubly mingled with
her day dreams; every moment in his
presence seemed an hour Of happiness
to her.
These endearing words threw off
the restraint he had sustained, and in
the ardency of his fondness he drew
her to his side and repeatedly kissed
the pale, upturned lips.
Cora, you will be my wife" he
said, looking down upon her with un-
speakable joy, as if the answer he
sought was already his. She DIRE ew
herself gently from his embrace and
the gaze in her lovely eyes appeared
to pass over him to space beyond.
She spoke as if in dream.
THAT never can be-" she uttered,
at the same time throwing her arms
about his neck and sobbing bitterly,
as if in deep anguish.
To be refused by o woman who had
just avowed herself in love seemed
a strange anomaly to him. A hun
dred conjectures filed his brain at
that moment. Was her heart pre-oc-
cupied? Was there man on earth
who loved Cora Lane more than be
did? Why could she not be his wife?
Don't ask me why, John. 1t is
better for US if we see each other no
more. Forgive me if make you un-
happy, but it really can never be; to
be your wife would only bring sor-
row and distress to our home"
Her enigmatical words puzzled
him.
Cora, dearest, I will forgive every
thing. We will start life anew; blot
the past from our sight; only say
you will be mine"
She strove to answer, but the pro-
found anguish in her bosom Knocked
all efforts to scorn. The look of melan-
choly sadness that overspread her en-
tire features, told Harlow that his
love was hopeless.
When he left that night with the
arrow of deep disappointment sunk
deep into his breast, she exacted a
VOW from him never again to broach
the subject of matrimony; but he left
her with the sorry assurance that she
loved him better than any one on
earth.
For a week Harlow never left his
room. His sprightly, gay spirits
vanished, and long fits of detection
supervened.
If Bertha suspected the cause of
the change in his appearance she
never betrayed it. He pleaded an at
tack of malaria, to which he said he
was a victim; this was all he offered
in explanation of his moodiness.
At the end of his hermitage long
ing desire to see his love again reas-
serted itself He tore himself from
his seclusion and went to her house.
When he entered to his bewildered
consideration he learned she had left
the city.
A note was handed him by the
lady of the house, which she gave
him at Cora's request He trembling
ly tore open the envelope. The note
read as follows
an three years. Cora"
Every one of those words seemed
as if written in fire. He was my5ti-
fed beyond reason. The thought,
"Was she trifiing with his affec-
tions?" took the place of all other con-
siderations. But where was the mo-
tive? The more he cogitated over
the short note the more he clothed it
with an occult meaning.
He left the house, repaired to his
room, and in the wreck of his lite's
happiness wept poignant tears of woe.
The Occident had no more charms
for him; he determined to return East
in the course of fortnight.
He left San Francisco an altered
man and returned to his home. but
the thought of Cora, ever present in
his mind, drew view of sadness
over his whole life. Some months
afterward he finished his law studies
and entered upon bis chosen pro-
fession.
At the end of three years his life
was just as devoid of happiness as
the day when Cora told him it could
never be.
He resolved at last to once again
visit the West and learn, if possible,
her whereabouts.
When he arrived at San Francisco
he called at the house where he lad
last seen her; she had never been
heard from, and as far as the good
lady could enlighten him she might
be dead, Mrs. Wentworth and her
daughter told the same despairing
story-she had almost dropped from
their memory.
The one great object of life now
was to find her and learn from her
own lips the meaning of those odd
words: "In three years"
If he failed-alas! he dared not
contemplate the consequences. Find
her he would, if it took years of con-
slant search. Such is the love of
some men, who in their coustancy
sacrifice years of happiness for the
sake of one mortal. Not a stone was
left unturned in his untlring search
for hear, but to no avail. No one
could be found to give him one ray of
hope as regards her whereabouts
But he found her at last-found her a
new woman, even lovelier than be
had ever seen her.
What strange, impelling influence
led him to visit San Quetin he will
never know. Was it mere whim,
a fancy, or was it the hand of fate